


Train Tracks of Dreams

by HydraNoMago



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU, Chocobros - Freeform, Cinnamon rolls, Day 2, Dreams, Future, Hallucinations, Illusions, Light Angst, M/M, Modern world, Noctis/Prompto - Freeform, Oneshot, Past, Promptis - Freeform, Reality, ffxv week, the prince and the pauper - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:38:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7407973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HydraNoMago/pseuds/HydraNoMago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What was he doing? </p><p>Well, he was waiting. </p><p>Waiting for what? one may ask. No sane man would lie beneath an old stone bridge, looking up at the desolate wooden train tracks which have not been in use for years, waiting for something which will never come. "</p><p>Prompto dreams. He dreams of a man whom he does not know but he knows he knows. So he lies under the train tracks and waits for something to happen, hoping simultaneously that he will and will not find out the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Train Tracks of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for #ffxv week on tumblr
> 
> Day 2 (writing prompt) : Dreams 
> 
> A little bit angsty, loads of Promptis or Nocto, AU in modern day world (our world thank you). 
> 
> Enjoy!

**_I was thinking about you,_  
** _**Thinking about me,**_  
 _ **Thinking about us,**_  
 _ **What we gonna be.**_

 

_**Open my eyes,  
It was only just a dream. ** _

 

_~ Just a Dream, Nelly_

* * *

* * *

 

 

**Train Tracks of Dreams**

 

He watches as rays of sunlight stream through the separation in the wooden boards, sees the particles of dust dancing wildly in the air and tastes the smell of fresh dirt in his mouth. The area around him is relatively quiet, only the buzzing of cicadas in the distance provides any white noise.

 

_What was he doing?_

 

Well, he was waiting.

 

 _Waiting for what?_ one may ask. No sane man would lie beneath an old stone bridge, looking up at the desolate wooden train tracks which have not been in use for years, waiting for something which will never come.

 

So he questions himself about his sanity, on whether or not he should have drank that bottle of wine last night. It was a bottle of Rivaner, Blue Nun. He had been saving it up for a special occasion, one which he could celebrate in the throes of joy, but he had not been elated at all last night. He was instead worn, tired, groggy. The images played over and over in his mind like a broken record, refusing to stop even when he had abused the eject button in his head. Refusing to stop even for a second for him to reorganise his brain before it turned to mush.

 

He sighs, feeling the weight of his chest as it sank down, helped by the pull of gravity. Fingers card through his blond locks, a show of frustration at his lack of analytical skills. It was also, if he allowed himself to be frank, a poor imitation of the gesture he had received in his dreams. Of a rough hand caressing his scalp, of calloused fingers playing with strands of gold.

 

What he saw in his mind's eye during his loneliest nights, those memories he kept the closest to his heart, as they were the same pictures which have troubled him the most. He knows in his dreams there is always a man, one around his age with dark raven locks and piercing icy blue eyes. He sees him in a tunnel vision sort of way, the edges around him are blur and dark, solely his figure is clear and vivid as the sky on a summer day.

 

He himself was himself yet not himself in those dreams. He saw his hands, the reflection of his face in the waters, all familiar despite being distant. It was as if he were trying to forget someone whom he has never even met. The Prompto in his dreams is extremely close to the raven haired man, constantly hanging around him and talking to him. He feels the need emanating from ever pore of him begging for the other male's attention, a need so strong he has to bite the inside of his cheek frequently as to not drape himself all over the other and kiss him senseless.

 

Speaking of which, they did share a few kisses in his dreams. One was by a lake, the blue green waters sparkling like jewels under the sun, an after meal peck which was slow and sensual. The second time they did so was in the heat of a battle, guns blazing, fire everywhere. He was kissed and he kissed back with urgency, with his hands clutching the fabric of the other's shirt tightly, with whispered ' _Be safe_ 's and ' _I'll come back_ '. Another time it happened during the night, under a blanket of stars glittering behind the velvet sky, both of them somewhat soft and shy, bright blushes which glowed warmly behind dense bushes. They also kissed inside a cave, the feel of the walls sticky and slimy beneath his forearms but he couldn't care less, all he focused on was the tongue of the other, sliding right up against his in a slow dance.

 

The last time he had dreamt of any kisses, or any situation at all for that matter, was of the both of them on the train tracks. It is this one memory (he is positive it is a memory, not a mere dream, for he is a simple romantic) that eludes him. He remembers them on the tracks, but he cannot for the life of him remember what they were doing there nor what they were talking about. All he does recall is the sensation of his fingers ruffling his hair, seeing a bittersweet smile thrown his way which makes his chest clench in agony, the feeling of hot tears streaming down his freckled cheeks.

 

He blinks, and sunspots form on the lid of his eyes. As expected, there is no train passing by, not even a faint whistle in the distance. The sunlight has gotten a bit dimmer, the sky has changed colours. What was originally a brilliant blue was now fading gradually into a baby pink hue, signalling the hour of evening.

 

He pushes himself up unhurriedly onto his elbows, then rolls over and stands underneath the bridge. The cold stone walls have cast longer shadows onto the grass, the water of the stream running steadily as it had before. He was nowhere closer to solving the mystery of the dream or getting rid of the images in his head than he was this morning. Another tired sigh slips out of his mouth and he tries to push down the heavy feeling in his chest.

 

What was it?

 

Anger at himself?  
Disappointment?  
Sadness?

 

He wasn't sure.

 

But he knows that he wants to see that man again. He wants to touch him, to have him hold him in his arms, to feel his lips moving against his own. More importantly, he wants to know the name of the man who he had tied his heart to. Or in this case, has.

 

A phone buzzes, it is his. He nips it out of the pocket of his jeans, sees the reminder he has set for himself to buy more groceries on the way home, and possibly restock his bottle of fine wine on the off chance he had something to celebrate about. He places the phone back.

 

Trudging up the small mound that leads to the road on one end and the wooden train tracks on the other, Prompto watches the sky turn red. A sudden jolt hits the base of his spine and his eyes widen slightly, his mouth slightly open. A red sky. A warm yellow ball of light on the horizon. Wooden train tracks over a bridge.

 

Then he is jogging towards the tracks, standing on top of it, right above where he was laying down several moments ago. He looks ahead, sees nothing but the rest of the tracks stretching into a single point in the distance, a vanishing point. One that he learnt in art class before. Behind him it is the same thing, another vanishing point leading to somewhere else. He flicks his gaze to the rapidly descending sun, a beautiful sunset. His shadow is cast long and diagonally onto the wooden planks, a lone figure.

 

Defeated, he hangs his head low until it touches his chest, muttering _Stupid_ repeatedly under his breath because that's what he was. Stupid. It was only just a dream, a dream which felt real. Probably due to the copious amounts of alcohol he had downed, which made it seem more realistic than ever. Indeed it was comical of him to even have a second in his life which he believed what he saw in a non-existent world was true, so he threw back his head and laughed.

 

His usually bright laughter rang empty as it travelled under the bridge, followed the stream, whipped through the grass and shot through those vanishing points in the distance. He laughed, and laughed and laughed, because there was nothing he could do but laugh at the predicament he had thrown himself in. He laughed till he had to clutch his stomach to keep from toppling over and until the tears leaked out of the corner of his eyes. Soon, the salty streaks have increased in intensity and he moves his hands to try to wipe them away.

 

A rough hand is placed lightly on his head, calloused fingers running through his hair in a gentle and familiar manner, sending waves of nostalgia crashing into his chest. He lifts his reddened eyes to the figure standing before him, lets out a small gasp of surprise as his heart does somersaults. The same raven hair and the same icy eyes, the same bittersweet smile. The muscle keeping him alive constricts painfully in his chest, someone must have plunged a knife into it and stirred it repeatedly inside the cavity when he wasn't looking because nothing hurt as bad.

 

The hand moves to the side of his cheek, caressing it softly and lovingly, that smile never leaving his face. Prompto cannot find his voice, can only lean into the touch with a hunger he did not know he could possess, hand clutching tightly at his shirt as he pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn't sloppy, but they fit perfectly into one another, their tongues and lips in a frenzied race for contact, their breaths mixing together.

 

Yet it was over far too soon as they both separated for air, the other holding him tightly still around the waist as they looked into each other's eyes. Another kiss, this time sweet and leisurely, something which made Prompto's toes curl in his tattered pairs of Converse. The man pecked his cheek one more time before gently untangling himself from him, wiping the tear streaks with his thumbs and pressing his lips against the blond's forehead, breathing in his scent.

 

“Wait for me a little longer, okay Prom?”

 

He nodded, clutching hard at the spot where his heart beat. “Sure, Noctis.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 


End file.
